


So This Is Home

by SecretAgentCodenameBob



Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Perspectives, Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, M/M, No Smut, PTSD, Post-Azkaban, so much love between these two, to dance again!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretAgentCodenameBob/pseuds/SecretAgentCodenameBob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite being the greatest wizard in the world there are many mysteries Voldemort has never been able to solve. How it was Harry Potter was able to defeat him as a baby. How he survived death a second time and found a new body despite his Horcrux's having been destroyed. What the hell a Hufflepuff actually is. </p>
<p>However, the greatest mystery he has ever encountered comes in the form of Quirinus Quirrell; the most unassuming, interesting, confusing man he has ever met. So, after finding his way back to his only friend in the world, Voldemort begins to unravel the enticing mystery that he cannot help but fall for and, in the process, finds out what coming home truly means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So This Is Home

"So, this is h-home. Or at l-least it was." 

The ex-professor and what little was left of the once Dark Lord stared at the small living room in front of them. Voldemort found it mildly horrifying that despite it's small size every surface was cluttered with something, be it books or papers or, Wizard-God no, _clothes_. Man, he was going to have to do some serious clean-up work.

Quirrell smiled weakly at the man's expression. "I know it's a m-mess. I'll c-clean it in the m-morning."

Voldemort quickly wiped the look of disdain off his face, jaw tightening at the thought he had hurt Quirrel yet again, even if it was in such an stupid, insignificant way. He'd already put the poor guy through hell and back and he was going to spend the rest of his life making up for it. No matter what that meant. It was amazing that he'd taken Voldemort back in the first place, never mind agreeing to let him live in his old muggle apartment. Voldemort was still pretty convinced he would come to his senses, change his mind and kick him out, like any sane person would, any second.

"Sorry man. Look, it's not that bad."

Quirrell shrugged and walked further into the room. Voldemort stood rather awkwardly at the threshold, unsure of how to proceed.

Despite the rather obscene mess the whole room, and undoubtedly the rest of the apartment, was just so incredibly Quirrell. It was almost overpowering how every object reflected the man's personality like that: the growing flowers in the pots on the windowsill, the Jane Austin novels littering the coffee table, the selection of DVDs by the TV. All from his life before Voldemort, before Harry Potter, before Azkaban. To walk casually in felt somehow intrusive, like Voldemort was peeking at Quirrell's diary and if not careful might read something very private and personal.

Quirrell raised an eyebrow. "You c-c-coming?"

Hearing the more pronounced, old stutter in Quirrell's voice made Voldemort wonder whether it was caused by a chill from the cold room or old habits kicking in again. Both possibilities set Voldemort on edge. Shaking off his discomfort he stepped into the room.

"You alright?" The concern in the professor's voice did something funny to Voldemort's stomach. He'd forgotten about that little side effect of being with Quirrell.

The ex-Dark Lord blanched a little. "Am _I_ alright? I should be the one asking you, Quirrell. You're the one who just got out of Azkaban."

Quirrell rubbed the back of his head, looking down at himself. "I g-guess I am a b-b-bit of a mess."

Now, in the better lighting, Voldemort looked at Quirrell properly for the first time. The poor man was thin, far thinner than Voldemort remembered. Hollows under his eyes, pale skin to rival Voldemort, still dressed in the poor excuse of a prison uniform, bruises peppering his skin beneath the flimsy fabric. The sight of those marks, indentations on his wrists and ankles, sent guilt flaring through Voldemort's body. How could he have let all that happen to Quirrell? He was supposed to be his friend, damn it. Yet one more item on the 'How Bad Can Voldemort Screw Up' list.

Voldemort fought desperately to keep his self-loathing off his face. "Well, I can't really talk about looks, can I? Human with a snake's face and all."

"Y-you're fine, s-seriously." Quirrell's smile quickly turned into a yawn. "W-wow, I'm shattered. I s-suppose Azkaban d-d-does that to you, huh?" Okay, thought Voldemort, you've really got to work on not feeling this crippling guilt every time he mentions the place 'cause it's going to get annoying real fast.

"Uh, I guess it would. You wanna hit the hay?"

Quirrell nodded, stifling yet another yawn. "It'll be n-nice to get out of t-this thing." Quirrell frowned at the offending piece of clothing, his too-small prison tunic. "Um, V-Voldemort...there's o-only one b-b-bed, s-so, if it's n-not too messy in h-here you can, uh, t-t-take the sofa. W-well, unless..."

The unspoken words that hung between them were almost too much to bear, so deafening in the uneasy silence. Yes Quirrell, I would very much like to join you in bed as after I got my body back I haven't been able to get a decent night's sleep without you beside me and I'm afraid if I can't feel you next to me I won't believe any of this has really happened and tomorrow you might wake up and decide you don't want me and can't trust me and please don't make me sleep out here where everything is so almost you but not quite please Quirrell I don't want to face the nightmares alone and I don't deserve you and I know I should just leave but Quirrell I need you and I can't lose you again I can't lose the only thing that could make my life worth living-

"Sofa's fine."

Something flashed across the brown haired man's face. Disappointment? No, don't imagine things that aren't real.

"Now come on man, you look like you're about to pass out. Go get some actual clothes and I'll see you in the morning." He gave him the best reassuring smile he could muster.

Quirrell exhaled slowly and the returned smile was genuine, if a little strained. "Alright. G-g-goodnight Voldemort. Help yourself t-to whatever. W-what's mine is y-yours."

The ex-professor half walked, half stumbled down a small hallway to the right and, with a small wave, through a door. Out of sight. Voldemort immediately felt something in his gut clench.

"Oh come on," he whispered, "you're the freaking Dark Lord, he's still there even though you can't see him. Stop being such a sissy."

But these new thoughts and feelings were raging through the battered man. Despite all rationality, all Voldemort wanted to do was hold Quirrell and never let go. He wanted to wrap himself up in the man, to bury his head in his neck, run his hands through the hair which looked so soft and cling on for dear life, never be apart again, never be alone again.

"Yeah, go walk down the corridor and do just that," Voldemort whispered viciously, "Jump him when he's asleep, recovering from the literal torture _you_ put him through. That'll make him want to keep you around. Idiot. Just go to sleep."

He cleared the sofa of books and papers, pulling the cushions into a pillow formation, barely resisting the urge to start a one man clean-up assault mission on the room. Voldemort chuckled, thinking of Bellatrix seeing him now. She'd have demanded he get off his ass and make Quirrell use the sofa; that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named deserved to be treated with more respect. How times change. 

Sighing and, ignoring the quiet voice in his mind which secretly agreed with the Bellatrix in his head, he flicked off the light switch with a wave of his hand. At least, that was what should have happened. Voldemort frowned, turning an intense stare on the uncooperative piece of muggle technology. 

Nothing.

“ _Damnit_ ,” he muttered under his breath. He shouldn't be surprised; after all, you'd expect being killed would leave one’s magic a little depleted.

Still, now he was soft _and_ had to behave like a muggle? Fan-freaking-tastic. As he got up to manually turn off the light that traitorous voice in his head asked whether this whole thing was worth it.

And immediately he knew the answer. Yes. Of course it was.

Now in darkness he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. It felt like his whole body was a hollowed out shell, a carcass of old flesh and bones with no more life in it. The was nothing left of him - but he had to do get through this, no matter what. Even if tomorrow Quirrell told him to get lost, even if there was only the smallest hope in hell that he could make up for his catastrophe of a life, it would all be worth it, for Quirrell.

Inhaling deeply he realised the room even smelled faintly of the man. Voldemort smiled. 

Yeah, he would do this. For Quirrell.

XxX

It wasn't surprising on the first night Voldemort would get very little sleep. Being surrounded by things that were so almost Quirrell but not being able to be with him kept him pretty on edge. And there was the lingering threat of nightmares lurking at the back of his mind so the patches of sleep he managed were short and few in number.

However Quirrell, the bastard, seemed fine. As the night went on the light snoring coming from down the hallway really started to grate on Voldemort's nerves because, damn, even _he_ was managing to rest - if anyone should be having nightmares it was the man straight out of freaking _Azkaban_. Then again, the old professor would probably be too physically tired not to sleep in his first warm bed for months.

After what felt like the millionth time of being jolted awake, the ex-Dark Lord got up and turned on the light, with perhaps a little more force than was strictly necessary. This damn room was littered with books, albeit muggle written, but he was sick of just lying there like a ninny. Time for a much needed distraction.

He picked up the nearest book to him - some old romance novel - and began to read, eyes glazing over the text. After skimming several chapters (wow, muggle books from two hundred years ago were _dull_ ) Quirrell's door flew open.

"Quirrell...?" Voldemort's head jerked upwards. The man had his wand at the ready, a half-crazed look in his eyes.

"Where am I?" he shouted, stutter gone. "What new torture are you using now?"

Voldemort stood up slowly, immediately alert. He placed the book onto the sofa as gently as he could. "Quirrell, it's okay, try to relax-"

"Relax? Don't tell me to relax," Quirrell snarled, "you're not fooling me this time. I know what you're doing."

Voldemort blinked, and realised with a start - Quirrell must think he was back in Azkaban. Another twist in his gut as questions swirled through his mind. Would this happen again? Would Quirrell wake up every day for the rest of his life thinking he was in Azkaban, about to be tortured? Would he ever be able to look at Voldemort as anything else than the person who destroyed him?

He clenched his jaw. No, don't think like that. Just talk him out of it.

"Quirrell, try to remember. You're not in Azkaban anymore. You were released."

Quirrell shook his head.

"No. Don't lie. _He_ wouldn't be here if this was real." Quirrell gestured at Voldemort's body with his wand. "He left me. He doesn't want me. This is all just a trick to try to make me happy again, isn't it? Give you new memories to feed off."

Voldemort felt winded. No no no no, Quirrell, no please…

"Quirrell, man, I'm real," Voldemort's voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Well, it won't work." Quirrell's hand was shaking, knuckles turning white from gripping the wand so hard. "I can defend myself now. You won't feed from me again. You won't hurt me again."

Oh Quirrell, I'm so sorry. C'mon, Voldemort, convince him. You have to convince him.

"Please, it's no trick. Try to remember." The ex-Dark Lord took a step towards the man, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I'm not a trick. I'm not a lie. I'm real, Quirrell. Please, try to think."

Quirrell raised his wand, face contorted in anger. "Stay away from me," he hissed, "I'll use this. I swear."

Voldemort, determined, took another step. He was suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he was, how Quirrell could hurt him, even kill him in his confused state. He didn't even have a wand to defend himself with. No, Voldemort was completely at Quirrell's mercy if the man decided to act. But he carried on anyway.

"Quirrell you're not going to hurt me. I'm your friend."

"Voldemort was never my friend," Quirrell spat, wand shaking, "as soon as I'd worn out my usefulness he delivered into this hell. I don't want him, so stop this. Bring out the d-dementors already. Stop making me see him. _Just stop it!_ ”

Every word cut through him like glass but he still took another step forward. Quirrell won't hurt you. He won't hurt you. He won't hurt you…

"You were released. My body was killed but part of my soul was still joined with you. I couldn't move on because part of me was in here." Voldemort pointed to his heart.

"N-no. You d-didn't want me. He didn't want me." Quirrell's whole body was shaking violently now, his eyes wide.

Voldemort stepped forward again. He was so close to Quirrell now that in another step the wand would be touching his chest.

"Please Quirrell. I always wanted you. I was such a dick to you and I hate myself because it's my fault you're like this and I'm so so sorry Squirrel." Well. Damn. Now he was tearing up. Voldemort was actually going to cry. "Please try to remember. I promise, Quirrell, I'm never leaving you again. Never Quirrell, I swear on my life, or what's left of it."

Quirrell blinked furiously, gasping as if he couldn't breathe properly. "You, you c-came back?"

Voldemort took a final step forward, his throat feeling sore, body aching despite only walking a few steps. "I came home."

Quirrell's bottom lip started to tremble. Voldemort briefly wondered if he had gotten through to him, whether he was about to lose his life yet again. Looking into those brown eyes though, Voldemort suddenly didn't care. It would still all be worth it.

"You're r-real?" Quirrell whispered. 

Voldemort closed his eyes, steeling himself for the blast of energy that was sure to hit him any moment.

"You're r-r-real!" Quirrell dropped the wand and launched himself at the man, knocking him backwards, arms locking around his back. Quirrell was sobbing and Voldemort started to feel tears fall from his eyes as well as relief overwhelmed him.

The ex-Dark lord wrapped Quirrell tighter against his body, one hand in Quirrell's hair as the two men cried into each other's necks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Voldemort whispered over and over again while he held the other's shaking body.

It could have been minutes or hours that they stood there before, after their sobbing fit had ended, Voldemort broke the silence that had settled over the two of them. The pale man reluctantly pulled away to stare into those gorgeous brown, now bloodshot eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Wonderful," replied Quirrell hoarsely, voice coated with sarcasm.

Voldemort snorted. "Yeah, sorry. Stupid question."

Quirrell let out a shaky sigh. "N-no, it wasn't, s-sorry...I'm n-not okay, but I w-will be."

Voldemort nodded slightly, unsure of what to say. _I hope we will be okay too._

They stared at each other, unmoving for a moment longer. Looking into his eyes, Voldemort could see Quirrell, really see him for the first time and it took his breath away. His battered soul was laid bare for Voldemort to inspect; raw, shattered and splintered down the centre. Voldemort was also suddenly aware that his own broken soul was being mirrored back at him, that Quirrell could see everything clear as day, too. Voldemort shuddered at the vulnerability of it all, the feeling of closeness that he had never experienced with anyone else before. The silence felt too heavy all of a sudden.

He coughed. "Hey, Quirrell, don't know about you but I'm kinda beat."

Quirrell blushed and looked down. "S-sorry about that…wak-king you u-up."

Voldemort tipped his chin up. "Don't you dare apologise. Really not your fault." My fault. All my fault. 

"I wasn't sleeping anyway." He swallowed. "I was...I mean, ever since we, uh, separated, I haven't been able to really..."

Quirrell nodded, understandingly. "At A-Azkaban, I always f-f-found it h-hard to sleep. A-and I always f-felt it was m-m-more than just being in p-prison, you k-know? Like I w-w-was missing a p-part of m-myself. This k-kind of restlessness."

Voldemort's eyebrows shot up, shock making his heart stutter. "Oh? Really. Oh. Well then, could we, uh, maybe-"

Quirrell suddenly broke away and headed towards his bedroom, dragging Voldemort along by the hand. "S-say no m-more."

Entering Quirrell's room was like going into his apartment for the first time, except even more concentrated. It smelt more of the man, ever so slightly garlic-y, and of ink and new parchment. It made Voldemort's head dizzy. Or maybe that was just the lack of sleep. Or the aftermath of crying so hard. Or dying.

Quirrell scrambled into bed and motioned for Voldemort to get in. Slightly nervous (dude, what is _wrong_ with you, it's just Quirrell, you've done this so many times) the ex-Dark Lord did so. Instinctually Quirrell turned onto his side, along with Voldemort and, after a little shuffling, the backs of their heads touched. Both men breathed out deeply.

It just felt so right, so natural to be connected with Quirrell like this again. Voldemort already felt his muscles relaxing, eyes drooping shut, the rigidness in his body being drawn out like poison sucked from a wound. He hadn't felt so relaxed in so long and it just felt so _good_.

He was already half asleep when Quirrell spoke. "G-good night, Voldemort."

"G'night Squirrel," he mumbled contentedly.

"P-promise you'll be here when I w-w-wake up?"

Voldemort leaned backwards a little further, nuzzling in a little so more of his head was touching Quirrell's. The other sighed contentedly. "Man, I promise."

And this time, he would make sure he kept it.

XxX

Waking up was one of the most pleasant experiences Voldemort had had in a long time. Not wanting to open his eyes just yet, the ex-Dark Lord snuggled in a little more under the duvet, enjoying the warmth and knowledge there were no Death Eaters awaiting his return. No new schemes he had to think up, no more mud-bloods to torture information out of, no Bellatrix trailing after him every second of the day.

Oh, he could get used to this. Smiling he rolled his head back a little and felt it connect with something. What was…

"Mmph...?" Voldemort heard a muffled sound emanate from behind him... Quirrell! Duh, he was with Quirrell now. Just like before. Back when everything was okay. No, better than okay. Wonderful. His smile grew into an uncontrollable grin. Finally, after such a long time, Voldemort felt happy.

"V-Voldemort?"

He felt the other man rolling over beside him, so Voldemort followed suit, turning to look at him.

"Shit man, did I wake you up?"

Quirrell gave a quiet grunt. "Maybe." 

He yawned and Voldemort felt his stomach flip. Quirrell's hair, normally soft and fluffy but turned limp by Azkaban, was tousled from sleeping on his side and Voldemort was struck with how _adorable_ he looked. Voldemort had never been a huge fan of dogs (too energetic; snakes were far more relaxed) but at that moment if Quirrell had been a puppy the ex-Dark Lord would have bought him in a heartbeat. Having slept nightmare free must have done both of them some good.

"S'not your fault," Quirrell murmured, eyes still partly closed. Voldemort smiled, having the sudden strange urge to trace the man's jaw with his fingers, to run them over those lips that looked so soft and-

Woah. Where did that come from? Before Voldemort's sleep-addled brain could catch up with his thoughts Quirrell yawned again and blinked a few times.

The drowsy state he was in seemed to be wearing off and suddenly he jolted upright, eyes widening as undoubtedly the memories of last night resurfaced. Voldemort propped himself up with one arm, watching Quirrell carefully. The old professor looked around the room, bewildered, before his eyes finally came to rest on the pale man beside him.

"You're h-here," Quirrell gulped. Voldemort nodded, feeling the need to reach out. He placed a cold hand on Quirrell's shoulder and smiled. 

"I promised, didn't I?"

The smile that blossomed on Quirrell's face did something to Voldemort's insides that made him feel as if he couldn't breathe properly. However, that smile quickly turned into a look of horror.

"Last night V-Voldemort. Oh my g-goodness, I'm so s-s-sorry, I-"

"Hey, shush," Voldemort interrupted, "it's fine. Better it happened last night and we got it out the way. I was sort of expecting something like that."

Quirrell drew the covers up around his chest tighter, wringing the ends with his hands. "N-no, the things I s-said. I was h-h-horrible. I'm so s-sorr-"

Quirrell let out a startled squeak as Voldemort wrapped his arms around the man. After a moments hesitation Quirrell hugged him back, burying his head in the other's neck. That rogue voice in Voldemort's head immediately identified that as one of his favourite ways to hold Quirrell.

"It's fine Quirrell. It's fine," Voldemort said, rubbing the man's back, closing his eyes, "don't beat yourself up about it."

The other responded with a small whimper and oh, that really did something funny to his stomach. "The things I s-said to you though. I-I didn't m-m-mean them, Voldemort, I s-swear. I c-couldn't hate you if I t-t-tried." 

Voldemort gently shushed him, rubbing the man's back a little harder. Just remembering what Quirrell had said, having his fears spat back at him in such anger; it hurt. He couldn't deny that. But hearing the apology made him feel a little bit better.

"So, is it alright for me to stay with you? 'Cause, I'd understand if you wanted me to get lost."

Quirrell pulled back, eyes wide. "N-no! Don't go. Of course you c-can stay here."

"Seriously?" Voldemort felt relief flood his body.

Quirrell chuckled lightly. "Well duh. I d-don't know what I'd d-do if you l-left again. I'm n-not sure what w-was w-worse. Azk-kaban, or not b-being with you."

Voldemort really didn't know what to say to that, could feel his mouth opening and closing while his brain checked out for a moment, so he was eternally grateful when Quirrell broke the silence. "Oh g-gracious, is that the t-t-time? It's practically l-lunch."

Quirrell scrambled off the bed, to Voldemort's slight disappointment, and watched as the ex-professor presumably hunted around for clothes. "I've been w-waiting on a n-nice, hot b-bath for months." 

And with that Voldemort was officially Quirrell's roommate.

XxX

Finally things seemed good between them. Quirrell's stutter had all but disappeared and he’d got a job at a local muggle library so they weren't starving to death. It was a temporary situation but the pair know that both of them needed to lay low and avoid any attention right then. Both needed to recover to have a hope in hell of fighting for a normal life.

So, while Quirrell went off each day to earn that muggle currency (dollars was it? Voldemort hadn't got a clue) the ex-Dark Lord had to find other ways to entertain himself. That solitude left him a lot of time with his own thoughts, memories and guilt. Maybe it was because of that that this...issue with Quirrell was happening at all.

For the past month or so Voldemort had successfully been ignoring any strange urges he'd been getting around the old professor. Of course, he recognised the signs for lust, which was a bit crazy in the first place.

Voldemort had always, always been into girls. His time at Hogwarts had proved that, and hell, Bellatrix. _Bellatrix_. Guys had never been a huge turn on for Voldemort. Sure, he'd always preferred watching men dance but only because he could appreciate the technique more, and pick up tips. But despite that, all the people he'd lusted over in his life had been gorgeous, supermegafoxyawesomehot, prize specimens of human beauty. Now Quirrell, he was cute, Voldemort might even go as far to say he was adorable - but _sexy_?

Voldemort was sexy. Bellatrix was sexy. Zefron was sexy. Quirrell was many, many things but sexy was not one of them.

This, of course, then raised the question of why, when Quirrell rolled over in the morning with that dopey smile on his face, did Voldemort want to pin the professor down on the bed and ravage those beautiful lips? Or why was it, whenever he heard Quirrell singing a tune in that glorious voice of his whilst showering was Voldemort driven mad by the desire to storm into the bathroom and shut him up, by whatever means necessary?

And that wasn't even the worst part. Oh no. Lust was something Voldemort was well acquainted with. Voldemort had been the Dark Lord, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. If he wanted something he would take it. Lusting after Quirrell, however bizarre, could have been dealt with very easily.

It was those... _other_ feelings that were getting in the way. The times when they watched a movie together and all Voldemort wanted to do was cuddle. Or making sure there was a nice meal waiting for Quirrell when he got home because Voldemort knew how tired he always was, carrying all those piles of books around at the library. It was as if, slowly but surely, Quirrell was domesticating Voldemort.

But the really freaky part was that Voldemort didn't even mind that much. For a month Quirrell had been his only contact with the outside world. Voldemort's entire life revolved around the brown haired man. Every night he lay down beside him and in the morning he woke up with him. So, these warm, fuzzy feelings freaked Voldemort out a little. He had been trying to put a name to them for weeks and he was loathe to admit even the possibility that he could… _love_ Quirrell.

Voldemort loved Zefron and dancing and snakes and killing mud-bloods but...no, to love another person, your one and only best friend was a step too far. It opened up a whole can of worms, each with their own special doubts and fears. Voldemort had grown up, learning the long hard lesson that if you cared for something or someone you would almost always be let down. The universe never worked for you, only against you. Hence why he'd decided to fuck the universe and do whatever the hell he liked.

But love...that carried things like responsibility and care and trust. All things the ex-Dark Lord had decided to put behind him.

And yet, Quirrell had a lovely habit of throwing a spanner in Voldemort's works by just being himself. Voldemort wasn't sure he'd be able to survive without the man, emotionally, practically and hell, even magically. Their strange horcrux deal they had going on was unprecedented, unheard of before. Without the other man near him Voldemort might well die.

So, he consigned himself to mute silence on the subject. No matter what, whether these feelings were love or something completely different, Voldemort would deal with the more physical aspects on his own. He would not tell Quirrell, could never bring himself to, because that was precisely the thing that would freak him out. Their friendship was too delicate and precious to be endangered like that. 

Voldemort couldn't lose him.

Maybe, one day, when things were more settled and the troubles of the past were far away Voldemort might tell him. 

Maybe.

XxX

Voldemort drummed his fingers against the arm of the sofa. He was feeling a little stir-crazy at having to stay in the tiny apartment day after day, especially after Quirrell had started his new temporary job... Which _was_ necessary and Voldemort did really admired Quirrell for actually being able to get up each day and face a normal, working, muggle life after Azkaban. Voldemort wasn't so sure he could do it.

No, the ex-Dark Lord wasn't angry at Quirrell, just frustrated that for the moment the rolling blading date he'd promised Quirrell was never going to happen 'cause he was locked up in this infernal cluster of rooms. Voldemort huffed, grateful that Quirrell was at work for the moment. He was sure if the guy was around he'd be snapped at, which of course, he didn't deserve. Just the thought of hurting Quirrell anymore made the pale man squirm in his seat. No. Never again.

He just needed to get out, do something besides sit in that damn sofa for hours on end, watching thousands of videos on FlooTube on Quirrell's laptop. Biting his lip, Voldemort reclined in the sofa. What should he do though? 

Voldemort crooked his head to the side, trying to remember the last time he'd danced. Hmmm, now that he thought about it, it had probably been with Quirrell at the graveyard the night he'd gotten his body back.

Quickly pushing aside the sour memories which followed, the answer to his problems dawned on Voldemort. Dancing! That must have been the reason he was so cranky. Back when he was a boy - an orphan boy - he'd danced every single day. But feared dark lords weren't supposed to be into that sort of stuff, and the night at the graveyard had been the one exception.

Thinking back to his dancing then, he remembered how elated he'd felt at being back and alive, his best friend still his. And they'd danced together! Just thinking about it made a grin bloom on Voldemort's face. He'd never been much of a partner dancer, always dancing alone, but when Quirrell had stepped up, that beaming smile plastered on his face, Voldemort had felt the happiest he'd ever been.

He wanted that again. He wanted to dance again, with Quirrell.

And he was a Dark Lord. He took what he wanted.

XxX

"Voldemort! I'm back. Sorry about being late but we had an issue at work that had to be-"

The brown haired man's eyes widened when he walked into the room. All the furniture in the living room had been pushed back, leaving the sofa a greater distance away from the TV than usual, thus creating a large, empty space in the middle of the room. The man responsible was standing, beaming in the centre.

"V-Voldemort?" Quirrell asked, surveying the room.

Voldemort's smile faltered a little at Quirrell's returned stutter, but recovered quickly.

"Well man, I know that you've been working really hard recently, like _really_ hard, 'cause those muggles have some ridiculous working hours, and I thought you could use a night off. You deserve it."

He held up a hand when Quirrell tried to speak. "Also, I never did make that roller-skating date. And as I can't go out because I'm officially dead," Voldemort looked downwards, averting Quirrell's gaze, "I thought we could at least have the movie. I've got wine and snacks and everything."

Quirrell stood speechless at Voldemort's words. Yes, they'd never fulfilled that casual plan, but he had all but forgotten it once he'd forgiven Voldemort for leaving him. The idea of a night out with his friend had tormented him in Azkaban, whether it was the dementors creating a fantasy for new food to feed from or just as the catalyst for one more broken promise. Thinking about it now made Quirrell feel slightly ill.

But Voldemort looked so happy and bashful and _beautiful_ that Quirrell really couldn't say no.

He mustered up a smile. "Wow, Voldemort, th-thank you," Quirrell spoke, cringing at the stutter. It had been starting to disappear but when he was nervous or thought about Azkaban it would emerge anew. "That sounds great. I guess work can wait as I'm free tomorrow. What are we watching?"

Quirrell put down his things by the door – he'd be damned if he was going to tidy them away neatly; if it bothered Voldemort that much, he could put them away – and the two men settled themselves on the sofa.

Voldemort grinned, reaching for the popcorn. "What do you think?"

The TV flared into life and Quirrell smiled when he saw the menu screen for She's All That.

"Of course. S-silly me." Quirrell didn't know why he felt so nervous. It was just a movie. "One question: why is the room set up like this?"

Voldemort chuckled darkly, the sound making Quirrell's nerves prickle. "You'll find out soon, Quirinus, have no fear."

Feeling slightly alarmed Quirrell settled into the sofa, finding he was genuinely excited to see the end of the movie. He had really enjoyed the beginning but his Dark Lord had commanded that he watch and how could he have refused him? He'd never done too well at that.

But this time things were different. The two laughed together, stole each other's snacks and drank a little more wine than they'd expected. At least they had separate stomachs this time. As eye-opening as the Hogsmead incident had been the hangover they'd had in the morning had been hell, made worse by Voldemort's whinging.

Quirrell found himself feeling unbelievable content as the night went on, any initial nervousness gone, and after the first glass was gone he snuggled closer to Voldemort than he normally would. Surprisingly the other man hadn't pushed him away when Quirrell had lain his head on his shoulder, which was very nice for Quirrell as he found the position quite comfortable.

After the movie ended the pair smiled at each other, unanimously agreeing that it was far easier to watch things together than with separate bodies. They stayed in their positions, watching the credits roll down the screen, peacefully, neither breaking the silence between them. Quirrell felt his eyes start to flutter shut, the long day at work having really taken it out of him. Exhaling slowly, he began to feel himself start to drift off…

"Hey Quirrell," Voldemort drawled.

The man in question's eyes opened and slowly he tilted his head so he could see Voldemort. "Yes?"

"Did you wanna know why the room is like this?"

Quirrell raised an eyebrow, slowly levering himself up. "Well, I was wondering…"

Once Quirrell had maneuvered into a sitting position Voldemort stood up and walked across to the TV, where the stereo was. Quirrell frowned. What was he doing? After fiddling with the device music started to emanate from it, a soft but upbeat tune played on the piano. It sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it before. Voldemort straightened and turned, a lopsided grin on his face.

Quirrell stared, confusion heavy on his brows. The pieces hadn't clicked, the picture in front of him didn't fit together properly, what was he _doing_ -

Voldemort stretched his arm out towards Quirrell.

"May I have this dance?"

Oh.

Quirrell's eyes widened, heart lurching in his chest. Voldemort wanted to dance with him? Unsure, the professor stood up, feeling the nervousness from earlier start to rush back, pulsating behind his rib-cage.

"Uh, V-Voldemort. I'm not, um, well I'm not that good at d-dancing."

Voldemort waved his hand dismissively. "C'mon Quirrell, that's bullshit. You danced with me when I got my body back."

Quirrell moved forwards, one step at a time, legs feeling suddenly joint-free. This couldn't be real. 

"Yes, I did, but I d-didn't dance well. At least, compared to y-oomph," Quirrell exclaimed in surprise as Voldemort pulled him forwards, stumbling into the man's chest.

"Please Quirrell, for me?"

Quirrell pulled away, already feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He could still taste the slight tang of the wine at the back of his mouth, thick and heavy. Looking at Voldemort, Quirrell noticed how relaxed his expression was; the almost constant frown that had been apparent during their first few weeks of living together having disappeared completely. Voldemort smiled as he arranged their hands into a generic waltz position.

Quirrell was about to protest when suddenly they were off, the brown haired man having to grab onto Voldemort's shoulder for support. Voldemort kept the movement slow at first, no real pattern to their dancing, just moving feet to the strong pulse of the music. Despite this Quirrell was sure he was jerky and off-time compared with Voldemort, who appeared to be totally in control. Ruefully he thought how it really wasn't fair that the Dark Lord was possibly the most powerful wizard alive _and_ an amazing dancer.

With cheeks flushed red and heart beating wildly in his chest, embarrassment flooded Quirrell’s body. Still, he forced himself to go with it, for his best friend’s sake. After a while however he found himself responding to the rhythm. He stopped fighting the awkwardness, letting Voldemort lead him rather than trying to dance separately. Scarily, he found it somewhat enjoyable.

"That's it Quirrell!" Voldemort exclaimed, eyes lighting up as he saw his friend start to sway a little more naturally.

"I feel like such an idiot," Quirrell muttered, but couldn't stop a small smile when he saw the other man's carefree expression.

"You're getting better, seriously. A long time ago a friend told me that no matter what, _always dance_." Voldemort leaned in and Quirrell could smell the light aroma of wine on his breath when it tickled his ear. "Just enjoy it man. You're doing great."

Quirrell couldn't quite repress the shiver that spread through his whole body, throat feeling dry. Voldemort pulled back, smirking slightly.

"Ready to speed up?"

"Uh-"

Quirrell never got the chance to reply. If before they had been dancing on the side of a cliff’s edge, vertigo making Quirrell’s knees knock, now they were falling over it. Their movements sped up, and they were flying across the room in a blur of action. Voldemort laughed as they spun and Quirrell was sure the music got louder, the frantic tune a whirlwind inside his head. It was all the professor could do to keep up with the fast turns and spins but Voldemort's murmured encouragement kept him moving.

Once he finally adjusted to the new pace Quirrell found himself enjoying it more and more. Time seeming to stop as the two danced around the room, feeling free for the first time in so very long. One track would reach an end but another one was there to replace it; with each new piece came a new pulse, a different type of freedom, a different brand of joy. Neither of them could keep the grins off of their faces.

No, they weren't falling. They were _flying_.

Voldemort began to teach his partner a few steps, giving the dancing a little more structure. Quirrell was mildly surprised to find that Voldemort was a good teacher, despite his tendency to snap when Quirrell stepped on his toes for the fifteenth time. But he always immediately apologised, and Quirrell didn't mind.

Quirrell convinced him to do a little solo dancing, quite happily sitting down to watch the ex-Dark Lord do a strange mix of tap and ballet and jazz that just looked so right on him. His eyes were drawn to the curve of his muscles through the shirt when he moved and Quirrell quickly reached for his glass of water. He internally scolded himself at having those thoughts, reminding himself that he was so damn lucky to have Voldemort as a friend and these flashes of attraction had to stop because they put all that at risk. 

But when someone was that damn good-looking it was rather hard not to notice.

"Encore!" Quirrell called when Voldemort finished, applauding, determinedly pushing aside the bubble of anxiety that had sprung up in his chest.

Voldemort grinned and reached for his glass of water, swallowing it greedily. Quirrell's stomach suddenly felt too light and too heavy at the same time.

Breathing heavily, Voldemort put the glass down on the floor again. "Boy, this is the best I've felt in ages. Although I do remember why I always wore that cape and not shirts. Way too hot in this thing."

"Then take it off." Quirrell mentally slapped himself. Idiot, idiot, idiot. "I mean, I d-don't mind if you...f-f-feel free to t-take it off. If you're too h-h-hot, that is."

Voldemort looked at him for a few seconds and Quirrell tried desperately not to squirm. Why did he have to open his big mouth and say that? Wasn't he supposed to _not_ let Voldemort know he had a thing for him? So stupid. Just when they were having such a good time and Quirrell had to go and-

"Alright."

Quirrell stared transfixed as Voldemort pulled the shirt over his head in one deft movement, everything about him practically oozing grace and agility. Quirrell felt his heart stutter up as his eyes trailed over the defined muscles, remembering what it had felt like to see Voldemort in his own body for the first time. It had been the closest thing to true, undiluted euphoria he’d ever experienced. 

Voldemort tossed the piece of clothing onto the sofa and pulled Quirrell up. The brown-haired man smiled weakly, desperately resisting the urge to reach out and feel that toned chest for himself. 

"Ready to go again?" Voldemort asked, eyes sparkling.

Pull yourself together. "S-sure."

On cue the music picked up and the pair began to dance, even faster than before. With all the spinning and twisting and turning Quirrell felt dizzy but he kept his gaze locked with Voldemort. He wasn't flying anymore; he was falling, plummeting at terminal velocity towards the cold hard earth beneath him with no way of stopping it. 

They were grinning again in no time but something felt different. There was a new intensity that Quirrell was sure he wasn't imagining in Voldemort's gaze and he found it impossible to look away, impossible not to get sucked into those irises so dark they could swallow him.

The music didn't let up; if anything it only increased in speed. Even Voldemort looked strained to keep up. Quirrell couldn't hear anything except his own frantic breathing and, as they carried on flying around the room, everything fell away until there was only Voldemort, only those black eyes staring into his own.

It took Quirrell a few moments to realise they'd stopped moving. Quirrell let out a shaky breath, as he dropped his gaze to look at his feet before his eyes darted upwards again. The pale man looked back at him and Quirrell felt his stomach drop. His eyes were burning; dark, inescapable flames which consumed Quirrell in their ferocity. He felt Voldemort exhale and became suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

Quirrell couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All he could feel was Voldemort's body, so close to his own; all he could see were those eyes. So close. So dark. So hungry. He wanted to say something, anything but he was frozen, his body a maelstrom of conflicting feelings and emotions, yearning to pull away yet so desperate to go closer still.

And then there was no more space between them.

Voldemort's lips were on his own and Quirrell could do nothing, rooted to the spot. Voldemort was kissing him. 

_Voldemort_ was _kissing_ him. 

He felt like he was about to pass out.

And just as suddenly as it started, it was over. Voldemort pulled away sharply, eyes wide in horror. He let go of Quirrell and the professor immediately wished he hadn't but he still couldn't do anything.

"Fuck," Voldemort whispered, "fuck, Quirrell. Oh shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...oh fuck."

The sound of Voldemort's voice broke whatever had been holding Quirrell in place. He inhaled slowly and swallowed, trying to comprehend what had just happened. His mind was like a broken record, repeating the last five seconds over and over again, stuttering on repeat.

The ex-Dark Lord looked absolutely horrified, practically shaking.

"Quirrell, no that wasn't, you don't want me to- I shouldn't have...Shit, I'm so sor-"

Voldemort stumbled backwards as Quirrell launched himself forwards, finding Voldemort's lips with his own with an almost violent force. Voldemort's eyes widened but he recovered quickly, wrapping one arm around Quirrell's back and the other finding purchase in his hair, raking nails across his scalp. Yes. _Finally_. Quirrell groaned, digging his fingers into Voldemort's back, trying to find something to hold on to, head feeling light and groggy.

Voldemort growled into the kiss and in an instant Quirrell felt his back connect with the wall with a sharp thud. Any pain was quickly overshadowed as Voldemort bit down on his lower lip, another moan tearing free from the contact. 

Quirrell felt entirely out of his comfort zone, his previous sexual encounters having been few and unmemorable. However, it was very clear Voldemort knew exactly what he was doing as his tongue ventured into Quirrell's mouth, sending Quirrell's heart into even more of a frenzy, all the romance books in the world not having prepared him in the slightest for what he was feeling.

Voldemort's words from earlier came back to him as if he were speaking to him directly ' _Just enjoy it man. You're doing great_.' Quirrell ran his hands down Voldemort's back, enjoying the feel of hard muscles beneath them. He kissed back harder and the groan he drew from the other sent a shiver of warmth trailing down his stomach. Holding him like this, being kissed by him like this; it just felt so right Quirrell wondered why they'd never done it before.

Voldemort pulled back a little, making Quirrell huff through his nose in annoyance at the loss of contact. However he quickly realised just how much he needed to breathe.

"Quirrell," Voldemort whispered, almost a whine. 

Quirrell drew in a breath of surprise when he saw Voldemort's dark eyes and how full of need they were, amazed that it was him, ordinary, sissy Quirrell making Voldemort look like that. Voldemort licked his lips, something darkening in his gaze and Quirrell was reminded of the one time as a child he'd seen a snake devour a rabbit. The same calculated look of a predator shone in the ex-Dark Lord’s eyes and, hell, did it make Quirrell's insides squirm.

Voldemort moved closer, hands pressed either side of Quirrell on the wall, blocking him in. Quirrell felt like he couldn't breathe. Voldemort leaned in close to the other’s ear and murmured, tone hoarse and rasping. 

"Quirrell, if you don't want this then you're going to need to tell me now, because if we carry on I'm really not sure I'll be able to stop."

Quirrell looked at the other man in wonder. The fact that he, the once Dark Lord, would not only want Quirrell, but that he would ask, that he would apologise for kissing him when he thought Quirrell hadn't wanted to, that Quirrell was sure that right now, if he said no, Voldemort would stop; it was too much to take in.

Quirrell reached a hand towards Voldemort's face and gently cupped his cheek, still breathing raggedly. Slowly, Quirrell kissed him softly and drew away before Voldemort could deepen it. 

Voldemort frowned at the chasteness of the kiss, at the gentleness of it, obviously desiring more but not daring to take what he wanted without affirmation. Quirrell closed his eyes.

"Of course I want this," he said, lips brushing against Voldemort's, "Of course I want you. I always have. I _love_ you Voldemort, you idiot."

Before he could reply, Quirrell wrapped his arms around Voldemort's neck and kissed him, pouring everything into it. The pain, the anguish, the hopelessness of Azkaban, the joy of finding Voldemort, the wonder that they had a second chance and the overwhelming love he felt for the man before him that even he didn't understand. He grasped Voldemort's fine hair, and felt Voldemort respond in kind.

Suddenly the overpowering heat from before returned and all at once Voldemort's hands seemed to be everywhere. His hair, his arms, his neck, his chest, his shirt. After a few seconds of struggling Voldemort tried to pull back from the kissing to focus on undoing Quirrell's buttons but Quirrell wouldn't let him, dragging him back up, enjoying the man's thinly veiled frustration.

Quirrell giggled into the kisses as he felt Voldemort's growing annoyance.

"Damnit Quirrell," kiss, "why does your," kiss, "shirt have to," kiss, "have so many," kiss, "buttons."

Quirrell finally released Voldemort to smirk. "Oh fine, get on with it you useless-" Quirrell let out a squeak as Voldemort tore his shirt open, buttons flying to the ground.

Voldemort grinned at Quirrell. "Don't worry, I won't expect you to clean those up."

"How generous," Quirrell muttered and kissed him again.

After shrugging the torn clothing off, Quirrell suddenly felt incredibly exposed. His burst of confidence almost instantly evaporating with his loss of clothing, he realised how very unimpressive he was compared to Voldemort. Quirrell had never been a particularly sturdy guy, but Azkaban had left him dangerously thin, skinny enough that he still hadn't built his body mass back up. For a moment Quirrell was scared how Voldemort would react to his frail form but his worries were quickly put to rest.

Voldemort's actions were frantic, even desperate, the skin on skin feeling sending waves of pleasure coursing through Quirrell's body. If he noticed the man's protruding ribs, or stomach that was just a bit too thin to look healthy he certainly didn't show it. Voldemort pulled away from Quirrell's mouth and set to work on his neck, kissing and biting and sucking, making Quirrell very grateful for the wall's support.

He was on sensory overload, aware of every single point of contact, every touch sending electricity pulsing through his body. As Voldemort slowly moved downwards, Quirrell thought briefly that they should probably move to the bedroom but Voldemort's tongue was incredibly distracting and it was all he could do to grasp the pale man's shoulders.

"V-Voldemort," Quirrell finally managed as the man reached his waist. Voldemort looked up through hooded eyelids, pupils large.

"Yes?" It had obviously been as hard for Voldemort to stop as it had been for Quirrell to speak.

Quirrell gulped. "Do you think we c-could uh…" Crap, Voldemort kneeling in front of him made it very hard to think, let alone form coherent sentences.

"Do…do you want to stop?"

"No!" Quirrell gasped, quickly blushing with embarrassment at the outburst. He saw a flicker of a smile on the pale man's face. "N-no, just could we do this properly? Like, b-bedroom? Now?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at Quirrell but stood slowly, letting his fingers trail up Quirrell's chest as he moved. The professor somehow held back making a very embarrassing noise, keeping his eyes fixed with the ex-Dark Lord. Voldemort smirked wickedly and, in one swift movement, lifted the professor off his feet and carried him bridal-style across the room, Quirrell spurting protests all the way. Quirrell decided that despite any promises at turning over a new leaf the ex-Dark Lord still had some evil in him.

"You are too adorable," Voldemort crooned as they entered the bedroom. No sooner was Quirrell set down was Voldemort immediately encased around him, arms locking him in at the waist, expression no longer playful but single-minded, predatory. 

“I have been waiting for this for so damn long,” Voldemort murmured, breath caressing Quirrell’s cheek.

Quirrell opened his mouth to reply but no words came out, his brain having apparently been left in the living room. Voldemort took advantage of the silence, kissing him deeply as he began to move the two of them towards the bed. 

As they hit the sheets Quirrell shivered, partly from anticipation but also nervousness. Voldemort was obviously far more experienced than he was and he was sure that he would do something wrong or leave Voldemort disappointed. But as the evening drew on Quirrell felt any worry slip away. Even if it was only for one night Voldemort was his, completely. 

And he was sure as hell about to enjoy it.

XxX

Voldemort woke up confused. He'd finally gotten used to waking up in Quirrell's bed but ever since they'd moved in together, every single night without fail something would wake Voldemort up. Whether it was Quirrell's nightmares, his own or suddenly remembering a stray item of clothing which hadn't been put in a hamper, Voldemort would never get a full night's sleep.

However it would appear that this morning, Voldemort and Quirrell had slept throughout the entire night without interruption. Maybe they'd just gotten lucky. Or maybe…

Voldemort's eyes snapped open. Tentatively he looked down and, yep, there was Quirrell, snuggled up to Voldemort's chest, snoring softly. 

Completely naked.

Voldemort felt slightly woozy as memories of the night before started to come back. The movie, the dancing, the kissing, the…Voldemort’s breath hitched as he remembered the details of after they'd left the living room. 

It had been amazing. Quirrell had been amazing. Not to be mean, but despite Voldemort wanting the man for quite some time he had never expected anything too earth-shattering from Quirrell. He was used to sex being violent, pleasure verging on pain half the time with Bellatrix and Quirrell was nothing like Bellatrix.

But apparently there was something about the guy which meant that one chaste kiss was all that was needed to get Voldemort all worked up. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that part of Voldemort's soul was in Quirrell so everything was amplified or some shit like that. Or maybe it was because Quirrell was his best friend, hell, soul-mate, and fucking someone you had genuine feelings for made the whole thing better. Or maybe it was just a Quirrell thing.

Voldemort closed his eyes, gently stroking Quirrell's bare arm. Quirrell was smart. He would probably know. He'd ask him when he woke up. After just a little more sleep…

Unless he doesn't want anything more to do with you. 

Voldemort frowned, eyes snapping open. Why had he thought that? Because, that damn voice said, that's what's going to happen. And you know it.

Voldemort tried to tell himself that everything would be fine, but the doubts niggled at the corners of his mind. They had been drinking last night. It hadn't been much but maybe it had affected Quirrell more than he'd let on. Had it just been the alcohol making Quirrell do that? Maybe when Quirrell had pulled back from Voldemort those few times, he'd wanted to stop but hadn't said. What if Voldemort had gotten too carried away and had been too rough with Quirrell? Had he hurt him?

The ex-Dark Lord fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable. He'd been so focused on not losing Quirrell as a friend and one night where he'd lost control could have ruined it all. Idiot. Idiot.

"Voldemort?" Quirrell breathed. Said man froze, wishing that they could both just go back to sleep and forget everything and not have to deal with the consequences of last night.

"V-Voldemort?" Quirrell blinked and looked up. The two men stilled as they both tried to comprehend what the previous night meant. Voldemort waited for Quirrell to withdraw, for the look of absolute horror and disgust that was sure to follow, to ask him what the hell he thought he'd been doing.

"Good morning." Quirrell smiled, leant up and kissed Voldemort. 

The ex-Dark Lord floundered for a few seconds before melting into the kiss, letting his eyes drift shut, all uncertainty evaporating instantly. He was still Quirrell, still his best friend. This was just…something new. Everything was fine. Nothing would change. Well at least, no bad changes.

"Good morning," Voldemort replied after Quirrell, unfortunately, pulled away. Voldemort stared at the professor, amazed by just how happy he looked. He hadn't seen Quirrell smile like that since the night at the graveyard, when they'd danced together. It was a smile he would never get tired of seeing.

"Oh my Rowling," Quirrell exclaimed, shifting slightly and looking at Voldemort's neck, "did I do that?"

Voldemort reached a hand up to his neck and tried not to wince at the slight soreness from the bruises. Yet another thing he had not been expecting from Quirrell, but one that he was not at all unhappy about.

He chuckled at Quirrell's stunned expression. "Yes you did, you animal. Besides, looks like you have a matching set."

Now it was Quirrell's turn to reach up a hand and as soon as he felt the marks, blushed profusely. He settled down into the bed again, head coming to rest on Voldemort's chest.

"So, did we actually...?"

Voldemort stroked Quirrell's head. "Looks like it."

"Was I..." Quirrell paused. "Okay?"

Voldemort titled Quirrell's chin up, tracing the line of his jaw just because he could now. "Quirrell, you were so much better than okay. You were wonderful."

"R-really?"

Voldemort could see from the other's expression just how anxious Quirrell was about the subject. He re-adjusted their position so Quirrell was level with him.

"Quirrell, man, _listen_ , you were incredible. I lost control last night and believe me, no one makes me lose control. Not even Bellatrix did and she was a real freak in the sack." Voldemort internally cringed at himself on that last bit, realising a little too late that might not have been the best thing to say right at the moment.

Quirrell looked skeptical. Voldemort huffed, annoyed at himself that he couldn't find a way to make Quirrell understand. 

Inspiration hit him like lightning.

"Hey, I've got an idea." Voldemort lifted Quirrell on top of him, to the great indignation of the professor, so he was straddling Voldemort's hips.

"You've got to stop doing that," Quirrell admonished, but Voldemort could see his heart wasn't in it.

"Oh yeah, Squirrel? Make me."

Voldemort smirked as Quirrell's expression turned determined. He leant down, pressing his lips against Voldemort's. The ex-Dark Lord closed his eyes, allowing the feeling of warmth to fill him up from the inside. There was no urgency in the kiss, no frantic desire that had overpowered them last night. They took their time exploring each other, knowing they had all the time in the world to enjoy that moment.

He thought that he would never get used to the feeling of being kissed by Quirrell. Or rather, Voldemort thought, he would never get used to the feeling of being kissed by someone who cared for him, for someone who considered him his best friend for someone who loved-

Wait.

Voldemort froze, eyes open, panic building inside. Quirrell pulled away, concern clouding his features. Under normal circumstances Voldemort would have found it adorable but right then his heart had suddenly started trying to claw its way out of his chest.

"V-Voldemort?" The man in question couldn't breathe properly, could only stare at those gorgeous brown eyes above him. "Did I do s-something wrong?"

"You love me," Voldemort breathed, so quiet that he wasn't sure Quirrell had heard it.

"W-what?" 

Voldemort closed his eyes, swallowed and opened them again. "You said you l-love me.”

Quirrell's ears started to turn a light shade of pink. He pushed a lone strand of hair out of his eyes. "Y-yes, I did, didn't I?"

Voldemort blinked several times. "But…how?"

"How what, Voldemort?" He looked so confused. He didn't understand.

"How can you love me?" Voldemort's voice was barely a whisper. "How can you, perfect, amazing, wonderful Quirrell, love _me_?"

Quirrell looked at the man below him as if his heart was breaking. "Oh, V-Voldemort. How could I not love you? You're my best friend. I've always loved you, didn't you know that?"

Voldemort shook his head slightly, eyes unfocused. "But I don't deserve it. After everything I've done, all the pain and hurt I've caused you…You deserve so much better than me, Squirrel, so much better."

Quirrell reached out with his hand to stroke Voldemort's cheek, smiling softly. "I don't want anyone else, I don't want someone 'better'." He leant in, so their foreheads were touching. "I love you, Tom. And I always will."

Voldemort let out a shaky breath, head whirling. _He loves me. He loves me. He loves me_. Voldemort felt like his chest was going to burst, like his body was about to fade from existence. It was only Quirrell keeping him grounded. 

But it wasn't enough.

Voldemort closed the small distance between them, focusing on the feeling of Quirrell's lips against his, forcing his heart to slow, for his mind to clear. Quirrell, how on earth did I ever manage to find you.

After some time Quirrell pulled back, looking anxiously at Voldemort. "Are you alright?"

Voldemort nodded, managing to give Quirrell a small smile. "Yeah, I-I think so. It's just…" Deep breaths now, deep breaths. "No one's said they-that they loved me in such a long time. And-and I'd forgotten what it felt like. To feel like this."

Quirrell smiled, and gave Voldemort a short kiss where his nose should be. "Well, I'm going to make sure you never forget it." He paused. "So, what was this idea?"

Voldemort blinked a few times, shock still heavy in his head from the...revelation. "Oh, yeah, right." 

Remember, you can breathe. Do try to, for Quirrell's sake. "Um, you know that I'm pretty skilled in legilimency?"

Quirrell nodded. 

"Well, uh, it can work both ways. As in, not me reading your mind. It's just, if you don't think you were actually good I could...show you what it felt like from my end, so to speak. Because, honest to Wizard-God, it was amazing."

Quirrell looked stunned at the suggestion. Voldemort felt the need to backtrack suddenly, unsure of the other’s response. "I mean, we don't have to, it was just a suggestion. It's weird. Crazy thing to suggest. Just forget I said it."

"I…" Quirrell looked like he was struggling to find the words, forehead creased with that cute little wrinkle. "I can't believe you would… that you'd do that for me."

Voldemort frowned a little. "Well, sure man. If it would make you feel more confident." Voldemort ran his fingers down Quirrell's spine, enjoying the shiver it drew from the man. "If we are going to do that again, I don't want you to be anxious, you know? 'Cause that really defies the point of having sex in the first place."

Quirrell smiled down at Voldemort, eyes so full of some unidentified emotion and kissed him again. This kiss was strange to Voldemort; it wasn't passionate or driven by desire, but it was strangely satisfying, as if it was the fulfillment of a promise made long ago. It was also a kiss that did something funny to Voldemort's chest because it felt as if it was about to overflow with something, some feeling the ex-Dark Lord couldn't quite place, but not one that he disliked.

When they drew back they both sighed in unison, Voldemort finding he had to open eyes he didn't remember closing. Quirrell was smiling broadly now and he looked so perfect in that moment Voldemort wondered how the universe had ever decided to give him such a beautiful person after everything he'd done.

"And you wonder why I could love you."

Voldemort paused. "So...do you want me to…you know?"

Quirrell closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and answering. "One day, yes. I-I think I'll need that reassurance. But for now," Quirrell leaned in so their foreheads were touching, "I only need you."

They stayed like that for a while, both loathe to break the content silence between them. Voldemort tried to remember any morning after experience he'd had like this one, but failed. With those girls at Hogwarts it had been a matter of escaping the quickest way possible, avoiding confrontation. Bellatrix in the early days had been excitable in the mornings, always looking for more ways to please her Dark Lord, but after he'd returned, after Quirrell, things had never been the same. The few times they had fucked, the minutes afterwards had always been uncomfortable; Voldemort would go as far as to say they'd been awkward. Just the shuffling of clothes and both silently wondering why it wasn't as good as it had been before.

This strange, settled peace was new to the ex-Dark Lord. But oh was it welcome. It was content and warm and not in the slightest presumptuous. It was gentle and quiet and yet it held the power of an earthquake, the sheer depth of love finally made and plain and clear on the surface.

It was so much more than okay.

It was _wonderful_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I am veeeeeeeeeeeery late to the party on this ship and for that I sincerely apologise. I wrote this fic like two years ago after a marathon of the musicals and, at the time, it was by far the longest thing I'd ever written. Now, a fair while on I found it and decided, why not clean it up and post it?
> 
> I hope someone out there reads this and enjoys it, just as much as I did writing it! Cookie for whoever can spot all the references littered throughout the fic. ;)
> 
> Glad I could contribute something to TeamStarkid! 
> 
> ~Secret Agent Codename Bob


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